Pee-pee Dance of Joy

Sunday, April 20, 2008

I’m going to Tel-Aviiiiiiiiv! I’m going to Tel-Aviiiiiiiiv!

So, talked to Mer the other night (who, because of the current ass-expensive flying prices won’t be coming to visit over her spring break but still plans to make an appearance before summer’s out) and we start talking about the possibility of me going to visit her in Israel after she moves out there. I tell her what, are you kidding? Israel’s on my top 5 list of places to visit before I shuffle off the mortal coil—of COURSE I want to come out, except the IRS butt-raped me and stole my seed money, so I don’t know when that’s going to happen. So SHE says, “You know, as a journalist don’t you want to visit me? I mean, this is the highlight of journalism! We can hang out at the American Colony Hotel where aaaaaaaallllllllllllllll the journalists hang out. Then you can write a juicy story. Listen, if money is the only factor I’ll have a lot of it. Would you come if I spotted you the ticket?”

After wiping the drool off my chin, I tell her well YEAH, but I have no idea when I’d be able to pay you back, so then, bless her heart, she says, “I’m not asking you to pay me back. Dude, it’s 38,000 in my pocket. No rent, nothing. Tax free. (She’s taking a sabbatical from teaching so will be getting paid by both.) But would you come is the question—some people are ‘afraid!’ “ And I was like, “Sheeeeee-it! I told Randy Kapers he’d go blind if he kept masturbating in 8th grade History Class. Who YOU callin’ ‘scared?’ ”

And so, at the end of September, I’ll be spending Yom Kippur in Tel Aviv. How’s THAT for a fuckin’ vaykay!?? I’m so excited, I can’t even STAND it! But in the meantime, I will be spending the afternoon in good company at the Cubs game. 10-6, babies! It’s a good start!

Mother’s first two tests: Completely and utterly devoid of ANY.THING. No cancer, no ulcers, no NOTHIN’. Now, the duodenum is still narrow, which COULD mean there’s something on the outside obstructing it, but the doctor was confident enough to allow us to reschedule the colonoscopy for Feb. 13th, plus when we were there a week ago, he pressed on her lower gut and it didn’t feel hard or like there was anything out of the ordinary (and with as skinny as she is—89.8 pounds as of this morning—you can’t tell me you wouldn’t be able to feel something if it were there).

So the detailer guy calls me back today and tells me—get this—that even though Pimp (which, if it isn’t clear to y’all, is my car’s sanctioned nickname, as it has many secrets and doesn’t want to be identified by my tens of adoring fans) drives perfectly fine, the two inches of remaining standing water in it has the potential to ignite the electrical nonsense underneath the carpet. And I thought to myself, “Huh. That might’ve been helpful yesterday, when I was driving around the wasteland that is now my town identifying for the paper as many of the flooded areas as I could; they were the ones identified by cones set up by the Public Works Department to deter dumbasses from commanding their own U-boats.” Oh, and because the water not only got under the carpet, but was most likely sewer water to boot (ew), the detail is going to be waaaaaaay over the deductible; the whole interior is going to have to be completely removed and the padding completely replaced, and that’s before the mechanic gives it the once-over to make sure there’s no electrical damage.

But don’t cry for me, because lo! the detailer, he did redeem himself, as he secured for me a brand spankin’ new, 7-miles-off-the-lot, 2007 Corolla as my rental car for the next two weeks while Pimp detoxes. And? He did it at the cost my insurance would cover. And? The new Corolla is a HONEY of a car, with sweet pickup and smooth handling. Makes me really kind of want one NOW instead of in 16 years, when I’ll finally have Pimp paid off and will have likely driven him into the ground. Though, I’m not dissin’ on my car, because if it survived almost-submersion in Lake Woeisme without serious damage, it has to be a hearty vehicle worthy of respect. In any event, Farm Bureau’s getting its money first when I get paid tomorrow.

Speaking of respect, it seems that there are people out there who evidently either didn’t read my missive a month ago about why I blog and the rules to which I adhere when doing so, or they did but have no reading comprehension whatsoever, so Ima post a link to it again so those who need to can go back and read it, but more slowly this time, thanks:

Could this Chicagoland area weather be any nicer than it was this weekend?

Before I go into my holiday weekend and how glorious it actually was, how ‘bout that nip/tuck season opener? Alotta questions here, folks—first up, is Christian gay? A tough one, considering what Brooke Shields (aka Dr. Wolper) threw out in their first session about him being in love with Sean and Sean acting like a jealous wife for most of the episode, but based on that info alone, I got the impression that maybe Sean has some repression for Christian. HowEVER, the character writeups on the show’s official site reveal that later in the season, Christian gets it on in the shower with none other than

Been up since freakin’ 6 ayem this morning to cover an informational picket out in Porter County, so I kinda got nothin’ tonight. But his gives me a chance to post more pictures from the gig, these being of the newlywedded Mr. and Mrs. Opie, aka the cutest couple in the universe (and remember, you heard it hearhearheer HERE first) (See? I’m so tired I can’t even spell.):

Waiting for Mother while she had her semi-annual doctor check-up, I was totally rockin’ out with the ol’ iPod, and have you ever had that thing where you think you know the lyrics to a song that you’ve heard a zillion times on the radio, only to find out that you really didn’t and wow! that’s a really good song? I had that moment today with “Brian Wilson” by the Barenaked Ladies. And it’s not like I haven’t heard the song a zillion times; I do have their excellent first album, Gordon. But I guess having ear pods crammed in your ears and blasting the music straight into your brain puts a whole new perspective on things, because that’s a really good song. It did occur to me, however, that BNL does sing a lot about mental health. As proof, I give you the lyrics to “Brian Wilson,” because I’m sure you didn’t actually listen to them and commit them to memory long before I did:

Drove downtown in the rain nine-thirty on a Tuesday night,just to check out the late-night record shop.
Call it impulsive, call it compulsive, call it insane;but when I’m surrounded I just can’t stop.

*It’s a matter of instinct, it’s a matter of conditioning,It’s a matter of fact.You can call me Pavlov’s dogRing a bell and I’ll salivate- how’d you like that?Dr. Landy tell me you’re not just a pedagogue,cause right now I’m

[Chorus]

Lying in bed just like Brian Wilson didWell I’m lying in bed just like Brian Wilson did.

So I’m lying here, just staring at the ceiling tiles.and I’m thinking about what to think about.Just listening and relistening to Smiley Smile,and I’m wondering if this is some kind of creative droughtbecause I am

[Chorus]

And if you want to find me I’ll be out in the sandbox,wondering where the hell all the love has gone.
Playing my guitar and building castles in the sun,and singing “Fun, Fun, Fun.”

[Chorus]

I had a dream that I was three hundred poundsand though I was very heavy,I floated ‘til I couldn’t see the groundI floated ‘til I couldn’t see the groundSomebody help me, I couldn’t see the groundSomebody help me, I couldn’t see the groundSomebody help me because I’m

[Chorus]

Drove downtown in the rain nine-thirty on a Tuesday night.Just to check out the late-night record shop.Call it impulsive, call it compulsive, call it insane;but when I’m surrounded I just can’t stop.

Anyone who's ever read Og's blog knows that traveling west off the I-80/94 into Illinois is hell on earth, right? I'm here to tell you that homie ain't lying. Christ on a crutch, man. Any plans you may have of going to Iowa in the near future? Scrap 'em now or get there through Michigan or Minnesota or whatever, because going that far out of the way will probably get you there sooner than I-80 will.

That nightmare, of course, meant that I caught only about two songs of our intrepid heroes' set, but what I heard -- "Life in the Fast Lane" and a U2 song my muddled brain can't remember at the moment -- done did us proud. As I told Lenny last night (Lenny being the sole original member left of BtL), he's finally got a group together that reigns him in and is serious about playing music and not just the whole rockstar aspect. Good stuff. The guys also made sure I had access to the VIP area since I didn't get a VIP bracelet which, love them.

Steely Dan, meanwhile, played none of their new stuff, only the best of the best: They started with "Bhodisattva" then right into "Time Out of Mind," my favoritist Steely Dan song EVER. I was in heaven. Michael McDonald was even good, though he did only his well-know stuff from the Doobies. Eh. And dude's got some white, white hair. But I got the cutest concert shirt; just hope it fits.

Got an e-mail from my pal Lenny about 20 minutes ago telling me that my favorite cover band is not only playing The New World Music Theatre/Tweeter Center/First Midwest Ampitheater Saturday night, but who're they opening up for*!?? That's right:

Seriously, I was just looking to see what critics have said about the purple leotarded one's latest gig. How was I supposed to know that this O.C. dude was going to write the whole thing verbatim, thereby taking all the work (and remembering, because there was so, so much) out of it for me, whose feet are still swollen from rocking out in 3-1/2 inch wedges all night?

Like I told y'all yesterday, I really didn't have high hopes for the money I spent; I was waiting to be thoroughly whapped over the head with whatever rhetoric Madonna's selling these days or whatever. (Not that I don't agree with her, but sticking it all in a pointy bra doesn't really resonate, ya dig.) But she was just amazing -- looked great, sounded great, danced great, the whole package. And the lighting and images were divine. If you can, pay the money and go see her when she comes to town.

As added icing, BFKAS, B-Dubs and I had a really good time, though I must admit it was more than a little disconcerting to hear my 56 year-old birth mother singing "Like a Virgin." Yes, I know she would've been only 35 when the song came out (to my 15). Doesn't matter.

It very likely will be the pop spectacle of the year – a politically charged combination of Cirque du Soleil, performance-art commentary and dance-party explosion that more or less sums up everything she has been striving to say and show this decade. But that much we expected, even without knowing what tricks were hid under her skin-tight leotard. No one – but no one– stages elaborate eye-candy productions like Madonna, whose highly impressive Confessions Tour opened Sunday night at a packed Forum so sweltering it seemed as though it were being prepped for the world’s largest Bikram yoga session.

Every other diva cut from roughly similar cloth, whether equally iconic (Cher, Janet Jackson) or simply a progeny trifle (Britney Spears), ranks so far behind the not-so-notorious chameleon that they belong in a lesser league. They merely present dazzle; Madonna effortlessly builds mounting anticipation for hers, trumps theirs within the first 10 minutes, then adds depth for most of the remaining 100. Of course, at $350 a ticket (and that’s just face value), she had better deliver a bonanza far beyond her contemporaries’ abilities. There are those who find that price obscene, and it’s worth noting that by demanding so much for entry into her momentary wonderlands Madonna continues to largely lock out middle-class and poorer fans, who just might revere her more than wealthier devotees.

It’s one of the downsides of mounting such expensive tours and insisting on an enormous paycheck: What is intended as an over-the-top yet populist celebration of all races, nationalities and religions often winds up a rather elitist experience. But, then, the same charge could be hurled at the Rolling Stones, and they charged $100 more for choice seats when they played the Forum two months ago. And though this is definitely a case of comparing apples and oranges, Mick Jagger and his graying mates certainly didn’t offer a sight half as ridiculously delicious as a remarkably fit middle-age woman in equestrian-dominatrix gear gyrating and grinding atop a rodeo saddle spinning in circles via a carousel pole.

That’s how the 47-year-old Madonna performs "Like a Virgin" this time out, after being lowered to the tip of her stage’s catwalk via a mirror ball that opens like flower petals, then launching into the most darkly lascivious number she’s presented this decade. Set to a blending of the new song "Future Lovers" with Donna Summer’s classic "I Feel Love" – and preceded (and interrupted) by footage on a giant, wrap-around screen of the lithe sexpot sliding a riding crop between her teeth and writhing half-naked with a gagging harness strapped to her head and her hands tied behind her back – Madonna slowly parades around her bare-chested, abs-flexing dancers in a top hat and tails (and not much else), occasionally whipping and riding one like a horse. It’s enough to make you think this production will be as racy as her Blonde Ambition Tour, or perhaps finally provide the climax that the tour-free "Erotica" never quite achieved (unless you really enjoyed her "Sex" book).

Yet that’s only a tease; indeed, by the time she actually revives the song "Erotica" late in the disco finale of her two-hour show, any remaining lust has been stripped away. Even amid the raciness of the opening section, she hints at where she’s headed, singing in "Get Together": "Do you believe that we can change the future?" The next line is "Do you believe that I can make you feel better?" – but it might better have been amended to "make you think." After concluding her coming-out with a bounding gymnastics display attached to the track "Jump," she suddenly shifts into bleaker, more challenging terrain, quickly emerging with a centerpiece that is sure to stir resentful feelings with the same people who didn’t like her controversial "Like a Prayer" Pepsi ad many years ago.

Hanging mock-crucified on a huge mirrored cross, a crown of thorns atop her wavy blond locks, Madonna sings an inspired rethinking of the heretofore sappy ballad "Live to Tell," its usual bed of tinny synths replaced by churchy organs, its lyrics – "A man can tell a thousand lies / I’ve learned my lesson well" – seemingly directed at powers-that-be she deems dogmatic and hypocritical. The bridge, during which almost all background music faded out, was especially captivating. "How will they hear?" she asks. "When will they learn? How will they know?" The meaning of that and the equally outspoken moments that followed is wide open to interpretation, considering that it took in all manner of subjects, from burka-shrouded women breaking away from servitude and the plight of AIDS-ravaged African children to a visual attack on world leaders past (Hitler, Mussolini, Hussein, a number of popes) and present (Bush, Blair, bin Laden).

"Forbidden Love," for instance, instantly changed from just another gay anthem to a moving plea for spiritual harmony, with an array of religious symbols (formed out of thousands of blood cells) intersecting and colliding. A turbaned vocalist introduced as Isaac blew shofar to introduce Madonna’s new song of the same name, while a woman draped in gray danced as if a caged bird. "Like It or Not" was transformed from merely a self-satisfied statement of defiance into that aforementioned skewering of political figures, with the star hollering, "I can’t take it / Don’t speak / I’ve heard it all before." It was multimedia, cross-cultural preaching to the choir on a scale only U2 has reached lately. But unlike that band’s recent performances, the momentum here isn’t maintained; it’s just one portion, followed by a rocked-up section (in which she straps on a Gibson for thicker takes on "I Love New York" and "Ray of Light") and a house-heavy finale, kicked off by a mash-up of "Music" with the classic "Disco Inferno" and Madonna making moves in a white Travolta three-piece suit. Only the tender acoustic pairing of "Drowned World / Substitute for Love" and "Paradise Not for Me" reminds of the thought-provoking sentiments she puts forth earlier in the performance.

Is that a flaw? Depends on how you view it, I suppose. I sensed a little life go out of the show in the last fourth, when the choreography grew routine and the hits came too few and too radicalized ("La Isla Bonita" was far too rapid for her too keep pace verbally). Surely some will be dismayed to learn the show features all but two songs from her latest album but relatively few staples. They should have attended the last tour, which was largely about reinventing such material. This show is about summation and reconfiguration – the same formula presented unpredictably. Since the decade began – and Madonna returned to regular touring – she has been leaning toward something like this, something that encapsulates all of the various theatrical strains she incorporated just before 9/11 and the sociopolitical invective she added after that fateful day. This one isn’t perfect – yet. By the time it’s on HBO, it may be fine-tuned for more power. For now, however, it’s quite possibly the best production she’s ever concocted.

It is the job of a good person to be honest. To be self-aware. To deliberately explore the fault lines of your character and try desperately to not inflict suffering in this strange, ghost-ridden world of worked and fabricated objects. Sometimes the jobs of writer and good person coincide. But more often they don’t. There are way more writers in the world than there are good people.

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Broad said:
Like I said, my feelings are complicated on the matter, so ... I’m interested, however, in Her Highness’ thoughts on…
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Caterina said:
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Wholovesya? said:
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Wholovesya? said:
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Wholovesya? said:
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